


He fell in love with knives

by Caffinated_Story



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffinated_Story/pseuds/Caffinated_Story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nation can not die, yet they certainly know death. <br/>Norway fell in love with knives for this very reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He fell in love with knives

**Author's Note:**

> [Possibly the most morbid thing I've ever written. JFC.]  
> Not for kids at all. Move along people, nothing to read here
> 
> Based on this picture : http://ducere.tumblr.com/post/29951687497/this-headcanon-he-grew-fond-of-knives-more

He fell in love with the knife from an early age.  
Sleek, simple, sharp, useful, complicated, deadly...  
It was, in his opinion, everything one could ever need to survive in the cold and harsh reality that was the world.

Smaller and easier to conceal than a sword. Simpler to control. Lighter and effortless to clean and uphold to a good standard.  
Tie it to a stick and you had a spear.

Oh yes, Norway fell in live with knives from a very early age.

He felt their power in battles. Giving and receiving stabs became a thrill.

It never pierced deeply enough to do enough damage to his own body, but if you knew where to hit they were as deadly as an arrow.

A jab, a twist and a pull and life was gone. The body in front of him could be lifeless in seconds if he wanted. Or he could drag their death out for hours.

Knives were so versatile. So useful.  
A tool for fixing, mending, repairing.  
A weapon for killing, wounding, hurting.  
A sign of power, skill and status.

Women wore empty sheaths in their belts, married had them filled.  
There was something sensual and mesmerising about them all.

So it came as no surprise that the knife became his first 'death'.

The metal was cold against his wrist, but all that was forgotten when his hot blood spilled; dripping down onto the dirt floor like red droplets of rain.

He had watched in fascination as the blood fell, creating a pool by his feet. The rush had been sensational.  
No thrill of battle to hide the pain, no hatred obscuring his thoughts.  
Only his own will. This was something he controlled alone.

It was empowering.

 

As the years went by his love never lessened, never stopped.  
The knife was still his, and his alone.

Small enough to conceal and hide away, or large enough to fell a beast.

“How many time before I die?” he had wondered as he lay in a pool of his own blood, the red liquid dripping down his neck and staining the floor a deep brown.

Death never came like it did to his people.

No, it never let him escape. It never let anyone escape.  
Perhaps that's why he did it. To remind himself that while he could bleed and hurt, he could never die. Not on his own terms.

That was the most frustrating part.  
His own terms.

In his own time he could choose whatever he wished, yet he could never choose when to die. Never choose when to simply give up and end it all.  
Not that he particularly wanted to end it all. He loved his people, his country, his friends, his nature...he loved it all. He wanted to watch over it forever.

But what if a day where it all came to an end? What if it all ended and there was nothing to love left? Would he still be forced to overlook it all never the less?

It wasn't a pleasant thought. And occasionally that thought would grip him, drag him below the deep and twist and turn his feelings till the only way to escape was the feeling of warm blood on cold steel.

His neighbours, family and friends could choose their own methods. Their own escape.  
For him there would be no other way than a knife.

As long as he had a choice in the matter, it would be a knife. Only a knife.

Of course, no one ever spoke of it. If a scar ended up being visible no one would comment.  
They all had their scars. Some from war, some from famine, some from sickness and ill health. And some...yes some were by their own hands.  
There was some pride in being able to scar oneself. A sign they were perhaps more human the others. Less of a monster.  
More in charge of their own faith.

But they never acknowledged this. Never spoke about it.  
And unwritten rule so to say,

Everyone did it. No one admitted to doing it.

It worked fine like that.

They could all fall in love in different ways that way. Non-judgemental and secure in their own ways should the time ever need to come.

After all, no human could comprehend what they had seen; what they had lived through.  
No human could truly understand the weight that was on their shoulders.  
And everyone was too prideful or to scared to reveal every insecurity to one another.

So feeling your pulse quicken, heartbeat pumping and limbs going numb was a momentarily escape from the reality of their life.

Death was nothing to fear when nothing truly killed them.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction of a fictional character that can't die.  
> What is written above is entirely fictional and made up, and meant to be a little thought provoking and disturbing in the sense that for someone who lives forever; what do they fear?
> 
> I've met many people who self harm. I understand the need some people have for it, but I don't necessarily see it as the best way to escape from your troubles.  
> Suicide is also a subject I know well, but would never wish to happen to anyone. (Depression I'm well acquainted with as well, and I understand the need to talk about these things.)
> 
> This was written purely as a fictional idea and I urge anyone that has thoughts of self harm or suicide to seek help and speak to someone.  
> After-all, we only have one life, and its far too short to waste away like this.   
> Life is precious and we should treasure it.


End file.
